


Shift

by Frothulhu



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Headcanon, M/M, Mild Gore, Xenophilia, dubcon, hinted necrophilia, quadrants are purposefully left ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frothulhu/pseuds/Frothulhu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat's got a theory about Sopor Slime and why Lime Bloods are so rare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shift

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck, I’m not sure if some of those warnings should be there. WRITER IN A NEW FANDOM GO GO. Apologising for this as I have personal friends on my tumblr who are Homestucks who may not want to see this pairing. I have left the quadrants ambiguous so it can be interpreted by the reader as they see fit. Also, about the dubcon, it really depends on personal interpretation. In my eyes, it isn’t dubcon so much as it’s just silent consent because FEELINGS. Also I’m running wild with a theory I saw on the MSPA wiki about Sopor Slime and why it calms Gamzee (Though I’m also a fan of the theory that Gamzee went nutfuckbutts because of Dave and not because he was ‘sober’. I’m ignoring that theory for the sake of this story) EXPERIMENTATION WITH SECOND PERSON

" _Karka_ t.”

Gamzee’s breath is hot against your ear and you can’t hold back the shudder it illicits from you, completely unwilling but not entirely unwelcome. His hands tighten around your wrists held tightly against the rainbowed walls of his makeshift respite block and you immediately know what he wants and what it will inevitably lead to.

As if there was any doubt from the moment you walked into the room.

Gamzee’s respite block reeks, heavy and thick with the scent of old, decayed troll blood from what he has coated his walls with in what he has told you is ‘motherfucking instinctual’. The bodies are well preserved, floating in some strange liquid tanks that have tubes leading out of them where the blood of your dead friends is pulled slowly and siphoned into small bottles, dripping at the speed of human molasses in the winter time as the blood might as well be sludge at this point, and they just don’t have the technology to pull blood from dead bodies at a rate faster than a trickle.

If Sollux knew what he had built those for, he would probably shatter the glass from where ever he happened to be at the time. 

You never did quite adjust to seeing them there like that in various states of suspended death, floating there. Your blood pusher shatters a little more each time you are forced to venture down to Gamzee’s respite block.

Despite the shattering, you go down there with very little hesitation. Only you know where he keeps his respite block and it has to stay that way.

“ ** _Karkat_**.”

His voice is a little more insistent, a little bit more on the edge of the proverbial razor. You swallow thickly and give a sharp nod of consent. He breathes a humourless laugh into your ear and one hand lowers, ghosting finger tips brush the tip of your horn and continue down through your hair to your face where he almost tenderly rubs his thumb across your cheek and it reassures you that there is a part of him in there some where.

The tenderness of the rub doesn’t last long and his claw punctures the skin of your cheek sharply, cutting a line down that doesn’t hurt so much as just sting. It’s superficial and hopefully no one will notice.

Out of the corner of your eye you notice the welling up of your candy red blood, and a bit of habitual panic builds up in your gut. Everyone knows of your mutant blood colour now, but old habits die hard. You will not be doomed to a horrendous gutting by the drones because you were left cold and alone without a matesprit or a kismesis. Pailing no longer mattered. Your blood colour no longer mattered.

Gamzee’s tongue, cold and wet, runs itself across the newly formed scratch on your cheek, tasting the bitter taste of your blood. He hums pleasantly, his grip on your other wrist loosening only slightly. Gamzee wasn’t a rainbow drinker, not like Kanaya. Gamzee’s need for blood was completely different than hers. She needed it to live.

He needed it so everyone else could.

There was a rumour whispered amongst troll society about those who were born with Lime Green blood. They were high enough on the haemospectrum to be considered somewhat useful.

Despite that, they were culled to near extinction. The only blood colour more rare than Lime Green was your own, you’d be willing to bet.

Gamzee had completely cleaned out his recooperacoon of Sopor Slime. It was around that time, when his withdrawal had peaked, that Gamzee pirouetted off the motherfucking deep end and started killing everyone.

Soosh papping had stopped him in the beginning, and after that he had disappeared. When you had managed to find him, surrounded in the decaying bodies of their friends, his hands and mouth smeared with various colours of blood lost in a mental slurry of insanity and his high haze.

He had all but drained Tavros. There was also a suspicious translucent indigo fluid around and on Tavros’ body, but you never mention it. You tried to push it out of your mind, but every time you see his headless corpse floating in that tube you remember and it makes your insides churn with sickness.

When he was like this, soosh papping didn’t work. He needed more. It was quickly deduced that blood was it. Blood, drinking it, calmed him down to that state of euphoria. Gamzee did admit that no other blood made him feel the same way the Sopor Slime did, but it calmed him enough so that he was relatively saneish.

It was through that process of deduction that you began to think that Sopor Slime was something else. You stopped sleeping in your recooperacoon after that and began to actually curl into piles of whatever seemed most comfortable, though the rest was hardly ever what you would call restful.

You were used to a lack of sleep. 

However, you aren’t quite used to what Gamzee is doing to you, and you have to push down your near overwhelming urge to flip the fuck out and scream in a mixture of terror and rage.

The fear overwhelms the rage in this scenario, so you keep calm and let Gamzee have his way. The further along it goes, the more you relax and the easier it becomes to get into it and let him do what he needs to.

Gamzee runs his hands up your sides, digging his nails into your skin underneath. You try and hold back the whimper of pain and fail as multiple lines are broken through your skin. You feel the lukewarmth of your blood spill over and drip down your skin. Gamzee releases your other hand and kneels, running his tongue over the cuts and your skin, lapping up the fluid as if he were dying of thirst.

Unlike your cheek, these wounds aren’t entirely superficial and don’t clot immediately. The blood continues to flow, Gamzee having dug his nails in deeper than he probably intended and than you were expecting. It kept him from injuring you further.

By the end of his feast, where your blood is no longer flowing as freely, his face is smeared with red, but the stupid grin is in place and his scarred cheeks are flushed a light purple.

“Karkat,” he slurs up at you, grinning openly. Your shirt falls back into place and you sigh in relief. He’s calm, and you’ve adjusted to the stench of his room enough so that speaking is no longer just you trying to speak with gags.

“Are you fucking calm now?” you mutter half heartedly, too exhausted from fear to put true rage into your words, as you normally do.

He nods lazily, sitting back on his hands to look up at you. You sink to the floor beside him, back pressed against the wall. Gamzee tilts his head to the side, looking at you with that same dopey smile.

“You’re fucking beautiful, man.”

This is where it begins. Something about your blood does this to him. Maybe it was the act, you never really asked or tried to think about it. Before it began, you tried to not like it and after it was over, you never wanted to think about it again.

Despite your best efforts, however, it often left you thinking deeply in your own respite block and relieving yourself.

Gamzee leans forward, pushing himself towards you on his hands and knees. When he’s close enough to touch you, he reaches out to stroke your injured cheek once more. This time, there is no pain, only a level of affection that Gamzee can give you that even now you’re too embarrassed to openly accept.

At least, until you’re so overwhelmed in it that you can’t help but to beg him to not stop.

His thumb rubs over your lips and leans in closer. You look at him, and he’s closer than you thought. Your blood pusher is racing and you feel like you might pass out as he kisses you, his hand sliding down to grip your jaw loosely. His kiss is soft and light with the tiniest hint of urgency behind it.

You return it shyly, body gripped in a new kind of fear coupled with an almost overwhelming embarrassment. The kiss remains languid, Gamzee deepening the kiss lazily. The make outs were becoming sloppy, saliva coating your lips and some of his chin as you both worked around fangs with your tongues.

Gamzee draws closer, placing his hands on your shoulders shoulders, rubbing them softly to relax you. It works, somewhat, and you sigh against Gamzee’s mouth. As you continue your kiss, Gamzee’s hands continued to move, constantly wandering. This time, they thread into your hair and rub at your scalp around the base of your horns. You never really understood Gamzee’s fixation with horns, but you let him do as he pleases, knowing in time that you’ll be feeling the base of his and he’ll be like melted cotton candy in your hands.

It terrifies you more than anything to consider that thought. Maybe you won’t this time.

The kisses continue, growing more and more sloppy the more Gamzee continues and the more you relax. There is a buzzing that is beginning to grow towards your center, a feeling that is embarrassingly familiar. The heat from your shame globes is beginning to bother you less.

You chance a touch, reaching out to cautiously, shyly, wrap an arm around Gamzee’s middle.

He grunts into your mouth, pulling back and sucking on your bottom lip as he pulls you away from the wall and onto him. You grunt at the force, landing almost dead weight against his chest. He’s pulling you back into a kiss, his hands wandering over your back and sides, pushing up the tails of your shirt so that his finger tips may caress your skin.

Your thoughts, before they grow to fuzzy to consider, start wonder why it is that this happens every time he tastes your blood, despite your previous desire to not think about it. You can’t help but to wonder when you’re doing this.  During a feelings jam some time ago, he idly mused that he suspected that different blood caused him to feel different things. He even went into excruciating detail about the feelings that your dead friends blood caused within him.

It only further proved your theory about the sopor slime.

You couldn’t come up with anything reasonable about your blood. You had a feeling, however, that Gamzee would tell you eventually. A part of you dreaded that day, for you feared that his admission would drive you away.

Deeper down, you knew that nothing Gamzee could do short of killing you could do that. Even then, you would find some way to haunt his ass. You knew that he was appreciative of your attention, even if it was somewhat divided in keeping these meetings and his location a secret, amongst other things. 

Gamzee is running his fingers up and down your back. The sloppy make outs have progressed, his lips and tongue teasing down your neck. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, allowing him to progress as he pleased, embarrassment cementing you from taking any sort of aggressive position, and fear reinforcing it lest you get a swollen head and set him off on a murderous spree. You do little else than lightly touch him, hands running over his clothed body lightly.

Despite his earlier aggression, like this, Gamzee is calm, and you are quite happy to let him languidly love you. It burns this way, and you secretly like it that he sets you on fire and you can’t figure out your shame globes from a hole in the ground. It’s such a secret that even you don’t know it, and should you figure it out, it would rip your world asunder. A self argument would be required for you to get the fuck over it, but in a weeks time, it would be considered weird but normal in your mind. That was just how you worked. Frustrating and angry, and it even pissed you off because it made nothing simple.

Disgustingly passionate, you think idly as Gamzee’s teeth brush over your collar bone and you keen lightly. You swear your cheeks are glowing.

He eases you back and you fall limp in his grasp like a rag doll. When you’re on your back, you fidget, eyes half lidded and looking everywhere but directly at Gamzee. Seeing him head on made it too real. He grabs your face with a surprising amount of roughness and forces your gaze onto him. You look, too stuck to resist by closing your eyes and you are forced to realise that this is real, that you are doing this and have been doing this and you feel as if you may die.

The kiss is broken and he undresses you slowly, and then to himself he does the same. Your injuries sting, and he notes them idly, but no apology is present. It isn’t needed. You allowed it. His lack of remorse no longer bugs you.

You breathe harshly through your nose as Gamzee smiles and proceeds to worship the flesh of your body with his mouth and tongue. You press up to meet his mouth, silently realising your hate of your body for being anything than perfectly stoic in an act such as this, before the feeling falls to the way side and you idly lift your arms to wrap them around Gamzee’s neck and stroke his scalp through his wavy hair. He almost purrs as your finger tips stroke around the base of his horns.

“Feels good, Kar,” he mumbles against your skin giving you the lightest of nips that stings but doesn’t break the skin. You sigh and continue petting Gamzee. He stays still for a moment, enjoying the petting with the occasional hum of contentment against you.

Embarrassment prevents you from making any sort of move with anyone else. Your prudishness has practically shot your chances with Terezi to hell and you have no one to blame but yourself. You wanted her to be everything, and instead of being honest with her, you drove her to chose a human matesprit. Even if they didn’t admit it to anyone else, you could tell. Your attempts at scheduling red time with Terezi had been for naught and, eventually, you accepted the obvious and gave up.

It had hurt, more than anything you remember.

Despite that rather harsh punch in the gut from reality, you still couldn’t admit out loud that toeing the line of pale with Gamzee was perhaps exciting to the point where you teased your nook when you were alone, and that, despite the violent pretense to some of these meetings, you were beginning to look forward to this fucking disgusting display of nauseating affection. 

Your blood feels like its boiling as Gamzee lazily licks and kisses his way down. The slowness is maddening, and it’s partially the delay that makes your nook drip the way it is now. Your thighs are glistening slightly, tinged red with your genetic fluids, nook on full display as your seed flap had long since retracted.

Gamzee peeks down between your legs and looks back up, quirking a brow at you. The gaze says everything that he doesn’t have to and you cover your face with your hands, willing a quick and painless death upon your person.

Death doesn’t come for you. Instead, you feel the prod of Gamzee’s fingers teasing around the slit of your nook and you gasp loudly. You hate the sounds you make, but you can’t stop them from coming. You once tried to silence them, but Gamzee insisted on keeping your hands away from your mouth. Uselessly you drop them to your sides and wriggle on the floor as he continues to lightly pet the slit, fingers dipping to touch the entrance but never quite pushing in.

A tease, really. Its for both of your benefits. You swear he loves reducing you to a useless sobbing mess.

“Fuck,” he breathes, fingers pressing against the wet flesh and rubbing harsh circles suddenly. You cry out, back arching slightly. You bite your lip hard enough to break the skin and slam your eyes tightly shut. Gamzee knew exactly what to do with you.

His fingers push in and any bit of restraint and self control you have left is gone. Gamzee pushes his fingers up against the pouch where your bonebulge rests. With practiced ease, he coaxes it out  and his hand carefully slides up the slick flesh, claws kept away from it. 

You groan and spread your legs instinctively as Gamzee strokes you lightly a few times. He pulls away entirely, all of the odd warmth from him disappearing for just long enough that you open your eyes to see what he’s doing.

His fingers are buried within himself, and he’s panting. You flush to nearly the same shade as your blood as he draws out his own bonebulge. He always does this, for you’re usually reduced to a blundering mess to do it to him yourself. Even if you could, you might just keel over from embarrassment at having to touch Gamzee in such an intimate matter.

Despite yourself, you continue to watch Gamzee, who withdraws his fingers from his nook once his bonebulge is fully erect. He moves, crawling a bit until he’s settled over your knee. He seats himself comfortably, for the both of you, only his weight added.

His fingers are reintroduced to your genitals and the heat fires up again. He starts with your nook once more, fingers dipping inside to actually tease you there instead of playing with your bulge. You vaguely realise that your leg feels wet, but you’re too enraptured in your own pleasure to care too much.

Gamzee continues to stroke you from the inside, three of his fingers pressing into you, sliding out and then back in with slippery slick sounds that you desperately want to hide. You claw at the floor leaving marks with your nails, sputtering out swears and noises of pure appreciation.

You hear him grunt above you, panting and keening much in the same way you are. You crack open your eyes, curiosity taking the better of you and your think pan is currently holding on desperately to it through the cloud of pleasure.

Gamzee is rutting against your knee, his free hand rubbing circles around the tip of his bonebulge. You gasp and moan quite loudly, bucking up harshly against his hand. Gamzee is just so maddening like this, and through the haze and embarrassment, you almost feel guilty that he has to rub against your leg to get anything out of this more than just the final act.

Maybe one day, you would touch him in return. For now, watching Gamzee has completely rid you of your grips on embarrassment and you cry out loudly as his fingers wiggle inside of you, sliding in and out, and pressing up. You buck against his hand, riding it as he rides you. Gamzee’s hand can get you there, and as tempting as it is to ride it out and coat his hand in genetic fluid, you need more.

“More!”

It’s a desperate plea more than a demand, but that’s all that Gamzee needs. He withdraws his fingers, idly smearing the fluid on his middle. He ruts a few more times against your leg, grinding rather roughly. You whine just watching him, feeling genetic fluid gush out of you.

He pulls himself off of your leg. It becomes obvious rather quickly that he was impatient, as he makes quick work of burying his bulge into your nook. It’s a rough, slippery entrance, but it feels good and you show it by pushing your hips to meet his.

He circles his hand around your bulge and strokes as he makes shallow thrusts into you. You keen and moan and chirp and gasp and make every embarrassing noise in the book where as Gamzee occasionally lets a swear slip, but otherwise just pants loudly and groans.

When you think on it later, you want to curl up and die.

The sex isn’t nearly as slow and languid as the foreplay, but your body still burns hot. You know you say his name in desperation before you come, spilling your genetic fluid all over his legs and onto the floor and it bothers you so much but at the same time you’re too busy falling to care.

Gamzee wraps his arms around you and grunts out his orgasm, his own genetic fluid spilling onto the floor to mix with yours into some bastardised reddish purple hue. You feel captured by his embrace and the feeling of falling stops.

He pulls out of you as his bulge retracts, and so does yours. The weight of the situation falls back down to you and you want to die, but you’re too limp to move. He picks you up and carries you to the horn pile eventually, but you’ve managed to curl up by then.

He laughs at your antics, you shout at him weakly to fuck off. He strokes your hair and idly you wish you could bite him.


End file.
